The Life of an Extraordinary Child
by genies
Summary: Drabbles of scenes from characters' childhoods. /Harry Potter, Severus Snape, Tom Riddle
1. Rubbish and Friends

**Written for the shipping week at Caesar's Palace (prompt: Living across from each other). I imaged that Harry would have met some of his neighbors at some point or the other and made a friend. Swing by the forum for the complete list of prompts!**

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Harry Potter is six years old. He has bright green eyes and a bright innocent soul, and the sun is shining on the grass in a million fragments, and the asphalt driveway looks like a black carpet of velvet. At the end stands a stoic mailbox, a butler to take him away.

"Go on now," an irate voice speaks.

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," he replies.

And he's ready to take out the rubbish.

He lugs the rubbish can to the end of the driveway like Samson, sweating and grunting with the effort. It's a full and tall container, and he's a small boy. If Helios could see him, he would say that Harry could become the next Sisyphus.

When he twists his body and pulls it around to sit at the curb, out of the corner of his eye he spots a little girl about his age. She stares at him with a lolly in her hand, tilting her head.

He smiles at her, and she smiles back, taking another lick of her lolly. When Harry turns his head, she disappears. He trudges back the house, reluctant to go back inside, but giddy with the imprint of a smile.


	2. Trainwreck

**A scene from a powerful Severus's childhood for Dragon, because of The Faint.**

The day Severus got his first toy train, he broke it. Slammed it against the table, actually. "Wanted to see what would happen," he said.

It was a Hogwarts train about twelve inches long, with golden inscriptions of the school. Severus's mother found it odd that a school would have merchandise, but she bought it in Diagon Alley for her son as she was poking around for some books. The train had moving wheels and tooted every few minute, and after staring at it through the store window for a bit, she decided it was charming and simply must have it for Severus. She supposed Severus just didn't like it as much as she did.

"You are severely distraught," she cooed to him, as she _reparo_ 'd the thing. She tried not to be too distracted by the fact that Severus was willfully picking the tablecloth off the dining table by pointing his fingers and curling them towards him.

A bit of accidental magic that maybe wasn't so accidental, a tinkling of curiosity, and a fascination with the _clank_ of a breaking object later, the entire glass candle set and salt and pepper shakers went crashing to the floor.


	3. Picture Day

**Written for the Back to School Teamwork Event at Hogwarts (prompts: Having school photo taken, blackboard).**

 **Written for Monopoly at Hogwarts (prompt: write about pre-Goblet of Fire Tom).**

 **Written for Challenges by the Dozen at Caesar's Palace (prompt: write about a minor character).**

 **WC: 589**

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Tom Riddle knows his name, though the kids in his class mostly call him Tommy. He knows he can count his age on his hands, when he can remember his numbers, that is.

Tommy knows that he has brown hair and pale skin. He knows that he has a smile that can charm his way into closed hearts. He knows he looks normal.

He doesn't feel normal, so he feels alone.

Tommy is seven years old. _Se-ven_ , two syllables. His teacher, standing before the backboard, claps twice. _Tree_ , one syllable. She claps once. She writes the two words on the board.

He doesn't enjoy this game of syllables, but he does enjoy clapping his hands so hard that sparks fly between his palms. So far, his teacher hasn't noticed, but someday he'll set fire to the desk, and then she'll have to notice.

"Time for pic-tures," he says, slamming his hands together four times. Once, his teacher had told him to use his inside-hand-claps, meaning he wasn't supposed to clap his hands together so hard that it scared the girl next to him. Tom had resented that, gotten set aside during recess, but he hadn't changed. "Four syllables."

"That's right, Tom," she says with a little smile before addressing the class. Something sharp in her eyes tells Tom that she doesn't actually want to say thank you. Tom can tell these things about people. "We have to wait until the principal calls us to go down to take pictures, but today is picture day!"

Tom nods, straightening his tie. "O-kay," he says, clapping twice. He wonders if it would be possible for him to explode the camera this time instead of just tipping it over. He has been practicing, but it only works when he's really mad, so he makes it a point to get mad often.

He has been trying out this whole school thing. Tom goes to sleep every night staring at the grey ceiling that's striped with mold, and he thinks to himself this: why? But at school, there isn't time to think about why. There are so many _what_ s to consider.

Tom knows that grownups don't like questions about why. He's not sure if it's because they don't know or if they don't want him to know. Maybe it's a little bit of both. Unfortunately, Tom knows these things.

Anyway, attending school is easier than than entertaining himself at the orphanage. There are colors here. Red for apples, yellow for bananas, orange for oranges. Twenty-six huge letters march across the top of the blackboard with pictures to accompany them. Tom imagines the S in the shape of a snake (which he hisses "sssssnake" to every time he passes it) coming alive and wrapping itself around his wrist like a bracelet. He thinks it'd be fun to put it in his teacher's pocket, but he isn't _that_ wicked.

At the orphanage, the walls are blank, and nobody notices if he sneaks off. Here, the teacher would have a fit. Tom likes it when she cares about him, so he tries to get lost often.

Tom mutters something under his breath as the teacher invites the class to rise from their seats and head towards the classroom door. The line halts before the glass door, awaiting more instruction. Tom's legs itch to run forward, and he knows the line would follow, because not everyone thinks in this class. He stays. He is obedient.

When the camera flashes in his eyes, Tom smiles at the duck that the photographer is squeaking above the tripod. He's a good boy, after all.


End file.
